


compulsion

by youcouldmakealife



Series: but always in tandem [33]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 11:16:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9654035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: Robbie’s also had time to think, and he’s decided something.“Cold turkey,” Robbie announces. “Going cold turkey.”





	

First thing in the morning they fly back home. Robbie’s had enough sleep to feel a bit more rested, enough coffee to fend off drowsiness, unlike Chaps who weaseled out of their Breaking Bad plans because he’s too good for coffee, and is snoozing on Kurmazov’s shoulder as a result. Robbie’s also had time to think, and he’s decided something. 

“Cold turkey,” Robbie announces. “Going cold turkey.”

“Huh?” Matty asks from beside him, where he was also starting to snooze. 

Robbie flicks his eyes over at Georgie, and Matty’s eyes follow.

“Okay,” Matty says doubtfully. Robbie thinks he should be a little more supportive, and says so.

“Robbie,” Matty says. “When was the last time you—”

“I wanted pizza yesterday,” Robbie says, knowing exactly where Matty’s going with this. “And did I eat pizza? I did not. I ate lean fucking proteins like a good boy.”

“That’s not really a very good comparison,” Matty says.

“Sure it is,” Robbie says.

“We all ate lean proteins,” Matty says. “That’s what was _provided_.”

“And I was a we!” Robbie says.

“There wasn’t any pizza to eat!” Matty says.

“I could have gotten pizza, is all,” Robbie says.

“Shut up about pizza, you’re making me want some,” Quincy says, a few rows ahead.

“See, even Cap Q can’t resist pizza,” Robbie says. “But I did, so there.”

Matty bangs the back of his head against the top of his head rest. 

“Stop rubbing in how tall you are,” Robbie says.

Matty gives him an incredulous look. “How did I do that?” he asks.

“Look at me, I’m too tall for my chair!” Robbie says. “Look at me, I have to stoop to get through doors!”

“Because cracking my head on everything is so much fun,” Matty says. “I really enjoy it.”

“Guys, we have heard this argument thirty-seven times,” Crane says. “Shut up.”

“That’s… a really specific number,” Robbie says.

“I started counting,” Crane says. “Reach fifty and I’m killing both of you.”

“But seriously, you don’t get to do the ‘woe is me, I’m a giant, feel—’”

“Thirty-eight,” Crane grits out.

“It’s still thirty-seven, just because you interrupted me doesn’t mean it’s a new argument,” Robbie says. “If I only have a limited number of arguments before I die, I’m going to get the most out of them.”

“Lombardi,” Quincy says loudly.

“Yeah, Cap Q?” Robbie says.

“Shut the fuck up or suffer the consequences,” Quincy says.

“Crane says he isn’t killing us until fifty,” Robbie says.

“ _I_ will kill you,” Quincy says.

“That isn’t very captainly,” Robbie says, and when Quincy makes like he’s going to get out of his chair, “Okay, okay, I’m shutting up!”

Robbie looks over at Matty, who’s managing to laugh completely silently. Robbie pokes him in the side until he cracks and starts laughing, loud and dorky.

“Matthews!” Quincy says.

“Sorry Cap,” Matty says through his laughter. He’s back to snoozing five minutes later, and Robbie considers poking him again, but he looks comfortable, and even if he got way too much sleep last night to have a good excuse for it, Robbie can be generous.

Robbie wakes up when Matty pokes him. “We’re here,” he whispers, like they’re in church or something.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Robbie tells him as Matty follows him off the plane.

“I believe you,” Matty says, so sweetly Robbie has to kick him in the shin.

*

They win their first game back. And it isn’t just a win: they motherfucking clinch, guaranfuckingteed playoffs, possibly even seventh seed depending on their next game and some of the other games around the league. The bottom three seeds are all within elbowing room of one another, so it's definitely possible, and _fuck_ Robbie hopes for seventh. The Penguins are the worst.

Usually this would be exactly the kind of game that called for a night out, but everyone’s pretty much intent on going home and getting some sleep, practically already in playoff mode. Playoff mode means celebrations are reserved for after four wins, and in the meantime you wander around like a fucking zombie with the sleeping habits of a four year old or something — good night’s sleep or you’ll be cranky as fuck, plus obligatory nap time. Not that nap time isn’t always obligatory during the season, but Robbie’s legit seen guys near tears they’re so mad if playoff nap time gets fucked with.

So far, shit’s pretty good. Game won, playoff spot clinched, and cold turkey’s going fucking awesome so far. Robbie barely looked at Georgie before or after the game, eyes shifting away every time Georgie attempted to make eye contact, and he thinks that was a clear enough signal. He’s proud of himself when he gets home, texts Matty _Home alone. Cold turkey!_ , and then fiddles with his phone for a minute, suddenly at an absolute loss.

He wanders over to the kitchen and looks into his fridge even though he isn’t hungry. There’s absolutely nothing to eat anyway, unless he wants condiments, drinks, or old takeout. He needs to go grocery shopping. Cabinets are the same deal — not empty, but nothing worth eating. There’s an empty water glass he left in the sink that morning. He puts it in the dishwasher, then, feeling guilty about wasting energy on a glass that was filled with fucking _water_ , puts it beside the sink so he remembers to use it tomorrow.

He goes back to the living room, sits down. There’s nothing on TV. Well, there’s a game, but how compelling is the third place team and the second to last place team in the West when one’s clinched and the other’s well out of contention? Even the commentator sounds bored, and Robbie changes the channel after a minute, scrolling through the TV menu in a blur so fast he can barely see all the shows he doesn’t feel like watching. He turns the TV off, pulls his phone out. Matty hasn’t responded. Robbie was one of the first out the door, and for all he knows Matty’s still driving home, but it’s annoying.

He locks his phone. Unlocks it. Scrolls through his texts until he reaches ‘Sniper Snapman’. Chews his lip, and tries to tell himself to put his phone down and figure out what the fuck to do with himself, but of course he doesn’t. To distract himself, but there’s nothing he can distract himself. That Wheels and Matty will probably be home by the time he walks over there, and even if they didn’t want to see him, if they were tired, or annoyed, or just sick of him, they’d still let him come in because that’s the kind of guys they are. 

He could whip their asses at video games or watch a movie or something. If Wheels’ girlfriend’s there they’ll probably be catching up on The Voice, and Robbie can get his kicks making fun of them — not Lauren, though, she’s cool, and also Matty and Wheels will probably team up on him if he’s stupid enough to bug her, which he isn’t. He gets it, significant others are sacred. So are sisters, and Matty’s like, adopted Lauren. Or she’s adopted him as a little brother, teases him like one and dotes on him like one, seems to like him best some of the time. Wheels is surprisingly cool about it, but maybe that’s not exactly surprising, because everyone likes Matty the best. The point is, Robbie can do shit. He can walk right out the door and get proper distraction just blocks away. 

Robbie’s phone starts to go dark. He thumbs it back to brightness, texts Chaps with _Do you have Georgie’s number? Need to talk to him about a play._ , because literally anyone else who has Georgie’s number would be way too smart to believe that. Not that Chaps isn’t smart or anything, he’s just —

 _Here:_ David sends, followed by ten digits.

Not that Chaps isn’t smart or anything, he’s just not the kind of smart that knows not to give him Georgie’s number.

 _Come over_ , Robbie texts to the number David sent him.

 _OK_ , Georgie sends back less than a minute later without a _who is this_ or anything, so either he isn’t fucking anyone else, like he said, or he still has Robbie’s number. The second option definitely seems more likely than Georgie keeping his dick in check.

Robbie turns on the TV while he waits for Georgie to come over, because otherwise he’s going to start tidying or some shit, and he doesn’t want to give Georgie the impression he cleaned up for _him_.

Hockey, even as boring as the Canucks-Oilers game is, is good at distracting him. He mostly zones out, listens to the sound of the game and not the commentary, snapping into attention when the crowd roars or the play-by-play guy goes sharp and loud. Both happen soon enough, and he looks up to watch the replay of a fucking _crushing_ hit Brouwer lays out on one of Robbie’s old teammates. Like seriously, Robbie’s shocked Abbott’s not getting stretchered out, let alone getting up all by himself. That’s some tough shit right there. Robbie texts him a thumbs up along with _Glad your head’s hard, you took that hit like a boss_ , and has just sent it when he gets another text. 

_Good!_ , Matty’s sent him, and Robbie frowns at it, confused, before he rereads his own text to Matty, and then just feels like a pile of dogshit. Great fucking work at cold turkey, Roberto. 

Robbie decides this is completely Matty’s fault for doubting his ability to abstain. It doesn’t make him feel any less like dogshit, but it shifts the blame a little. 

Robbie keeps watching the game pretty much just to to see if Abbie’s coming back. “It’s open,” he yells when Georgie knocks. Seemed easier to just unlock the door for him. Less chance of embarrassing himself by jumping on him or something too.

“Interesting game?” Georgie asks when he comes into the living room.

“Boring as hell,” Robbie says. “Except Abbie somehow got up by himself from a hit I think was like an actual hit. Mob style, I mean.”

“Always had a hard head,” Georgie says.

“That’s what I said,” Robbie says.

Georgie looks at the TV, but not like he’s looking at it, really — nothing to look at anyway, game’s switched to commercials so he’s staring intently at a fucking Buick commercial — more like he’s looking at it to avoid looking at Robbie.

“Can we talk?” he asks.

“Oh fuck no,” Robbie says.

Georgie slumps like somehow that answer’s surprising. Robbie wasn’t aware he got stupid.

“This was a booty call,” Robbie says. “You want something else, you’re shit out of luck.”

Georgie looks over at him then. “Maybe I should go,” he says.

“Maybe you should,” Robbie says, but fuck, he really hopes he doesn’t. He’s not sure what the fuck he’d do with himself. Closest thing Robbie’s ever had to an addiction is hockey, but he wonders if this is what withdrawal feels like, this itchy, everpresent _need_ for something. He thinks if Georgie called his bluff and walked out the door, he’d follow. He thinks if Georgie insisted, said that nothing was going to happen until they talked, well. Robbie wouldn’t promise to listen, but. He’d probably give in on that too. 

Fuck he hopes that isn’t written all over his face.

Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. There’s no way of knowing, because Georgie doesn’t call his bluff. Georgie hesitates for maybe half a second before he’s walking right into Robbie’s space and leaning down to kiss him. Robbie meets him right in the middle.

*

Robbie thinks, after, when he’s fucked out and Georgie’s getting dressed, that if anyone would get what Robbie meant about withdrawal, it’d probably be him. Robbie’s sure as shit not going to tell him, but. He thinks he’d get it.

“I don’t think we should do this during the playoffs,” Georgie says.

Or maybe not.

Robbie sits up. “You think you get to decide that?” he asks.

Georgie stops, shirt in his hands. “Yes,” he says. “I do.”

“Well then,” Robbie says. “Glad you get to—”

“I do,” Georgie interrupts. “Look, I get that I fucked you over, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to keep fucking you out of what — obligation? Some kind of fucked up penance? _Christ_ , Robbie!”

“So fucking me’s an obligation,” Robbie says flatly. “What, this whole time you’ve been—”

“I didn’t say that!” Georgie says, sounding angrier than Robbie’s heard him in awhile. “You’re the one who just said I apparently don’t get a choice in whether I’m fucking you or not.”

Robbie kind of wants to shout back, but he can’t think of anything worth saying with mortification starting to creep over him. “That’s not what I meant,” he mutters. “Jesus, what kind of asshole do you think I am?”

“How the fuck else was I supposed to take that?” Georgie asks. 

“I’m just saying that playoffs comes, you’re going to hold out what, one game?” Robbie asks. “Maybe you’ll make it until game three? Man, we win that series, you still going to stay away when we celebrate? How about round two?”

“Well,” Georgie says. “It’s worth trying.”

“Good luck with that,” Robbie mutters.

“I can’t deal with — I need to focus on them one-hundred percent,” Georgie says. “There’s no way you don’t get that.” 

“And _not_ fucking me’s going to be any less distracting?” Robbie asks.

“Probably not,” Georgie says, sounding tired. “I just. I want to do well, Robbie.”

“You think you’re the only one who doesn’t want to do well?” Robbie asks. “Get over yourself.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Georgie says. “I haven’t done this, okay? Most of you were there last year. You know what you’ll be dealing with. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

“That is such fucking bullshit, you thrive under pressure,” Robbie says. “Fucking Hobey Baker nominee, Georgie. You have a gold medal _and_ a silver hanging in your bedroom. Don’t give me that shit.”

Georgie smiles tiredly. “You complimenting me?”

“Just your hockey,” Robbie says. “Don’t expect anything else from me.”

He considers for a moment. “Maybe also your body,” he decides. He’s pretty sure some of those compliments come out of his mouth without thought when they’re fucking. Not his fault, body of an Adonis, etc.

“Thanks,” Georgie says, somewhere between dry and genuine. 

“Well,” Robbie says. “We’ve got another game and a break before playoffs. You planning on starting tonight, or—”

“Might be a better idea,” Georgie says.

“Might mean you just break faster,” Robbie says.

“You don’t have a lot of faith in my ability to resist you here, do you?” Georgie says.

“Absolutely none,” Robbie says.

“Yeah,” Georgie says. “Me either. Take it as a compliment, I guess.”

“I just take it as a sign of how shit you are at keeping it in your pants,” Robbie says. “Don’t know how much I have to do with it.”

“Don’t do that,” Georgie says. “Don’t reduce yourself like that, act like you’re like —”

“Like I’m any different from all your other fucks?” Robbie says.

“You are,” Georgie says. “How do you not—”

“Shut up,” Robbie says.

“Robbie,” Georgie says. “I—”

Robbie feels sick, because he knows exactly what Georgie’s about to say, and it’s mutual.

“If you say you love me right now I’m going to punch you in the mouth,” Robbie interrupts.

Georgie goes red, turns to pull his shirt on like he just realized he isn’t wearing it, like he’s not trying to hide his face. When he turns back around he’s a little more put together, acts like Robbie didn’t just catch him out. “I’ve seen you fight, babe.”

“Do not call me babe,” Robbie snaps. “Ever.”

“I call everyone babe,” Georgie says. “You’ve said it yourself.”

“I’m not everyone,” Robbie says. “ _You_ said it yourself.”

“No,” Georgie says. “You’re not.”

“I’m tired,” Robbie says. “Can you go?”

Georgie chews his lip.

“Can you please go,” Robbie says. He actually sounds as tired as he feels, which he didn’t think was possible.

Georgie nods, a little tight, then sits at the edge of the bed to put his socks on. Robbie kind of wants to tell him he can do that somewhere Robbie isn’t, but that just seems petty. 

There are freckles on the back of his neck. There are freckles everywhere on him, at least where the sun touches, and at least in summer, but most of them fade. He’s got a few that last all year round though, like those ones. Robbie tries to remember if they were all there back in college, but he can’t.

“Do you know what compulsion means?” Robbie asks, somewhat rhetorically, because he knows Georgie does. Once Georgie’s learned something it sticks. Not a photographic memory, but better than Robbie’s by a shitton. Robbie was always so jealous.

“Yeah,” Georgie says. 

Robbie doesn’t say anything.

“That isn’t the word I’d use for this,” Georgie says tightly. 

“I would,” Robbie says. “What, you want to pretty it up by calling it love?”

Georgie swallows. “Fuck you, Robbie,” he says finally. The back of his neck’s going red. Robbie stares at it, fascinated, wonders if it’s anger or humiliation or both.

“I give you our first two games before you crack,” Robbie predicts. “Bet you a fucking grand. Unless you just go after whoever sits on your dick the fastest. Go ahead and tell them you love them too, while you're at it, because your words are as cheap and empty as you are.”

Georgie gets up without a word, and Robbie flinches when the bedroom door slams behind him, then the front door, seconds later, like Georgie shoved his feet into his shoes, got the fuck out of there as fast as he could.

Robbie needs a distraction from the bile in his throat, his gorge rising. He reaches down to fish his phone out of his pants. He has a text from Abbott, whose game is done, Robbie guesses.

 _missing at least 2 rds with broken ribs so maybe not so boss_ Abbie’s sent him.

 _Fuck bro_ , Robbie texts back. _I’m sorry_. Way to assume, dickwad. He bets Abbott loved getting that text after they gave him his timeline. Who the fuck lets Robbie say shit without supervision?

 _grats on getting thru tho_ , Abbie sends. _u n georgie still got it. must b awesum to play wit him again_

Robbie swallows, thumbs hovering over the keys. _Thanks_ , he settles on finally, because he can’t manage anything else.

It’s not the only text Robbie missed, wasting his time with Georgie. _You missed a great episode of the voice_ Matty’s sent him.

 _I doubt that_ , Robbie texts back, but writes, entirely honest, _Wish I’d come over._

He figured Matty would be asleep, but he texts back immediately. _there’s always next time_ , then, savvy or psychic, _for the voice. but also cold turkey. you can do it._

Robbie shuts his eyes, squeezes until they ache. _What if I don’t want to?_ , he types, then deletes it, replaces with a _Thanks_.

*

During pregame two days later Georgie barely looks him in the eye. Robbie tells himself he’s glad, but mostly all he feels is fury that he isn’t.


End file.
